


So much of dreams

by Rigil_Kentauris



Series: Things That Are Tiny yet Delicious, Like Mini Moonpies (One Hopes) [4]
Category: Deus Ex (Video Games)
Genre: DXIW era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, M/M, Mentions of canon typical violence, Nightmares, Panchaea, crossposted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-18 07:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15480756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigil_Kentauris/pseuds/Rigil_Kentauris
Summary: prompt fill crossposted from tumblr[[ The way you said “I love you.“ (Some fluffy, some angsty prompts) - 3: [jensard] A scream ]]





	So much of dreams

**Author's Note:**

> the fact that it wont let me properly capitalize 'Mentions of canon typical violence' is bothering me so badly
> 
> anyway prompt fill crosspost link [my tumbelr](https://kentaurex.tumblr.com/post/176376841095/the-way-you-said-i-love-you-some-fluffy)
> 
> may the alexes come and kill the typos with their boltcasters

It took years after the incident, but he’s fine. 

Years, but he was fine.

And then the Collapse hit.

He wakes up screaming, choking. The bedroom is dark and still but he knows, he _knows_ , that outside the door people jitter and stumble along, mumbling, crying, nails that are cloudy with other people’s blood and wet bits of other people’s flesh dug into their forearms, arcing, aching. Sympathetic pressure tied with a darkened internal chant, _thank god it wasn’t me, thank god it’s not me-_

And the hell of guilt almost immediately after, thick and rough and turning him into something made of concrete, something petrified, something stone. _You’re_ thankful _!? For this?!_

The hell of embracing the detachment. There’s work to do. He knows and he doesn’t know. None of it is real, of course, the bedroom is dark and still and the feeling that he can’t breathe is caused by phantom remembrances. He knows it. They aren’t real. But they’re real. And he wakes up screaming.

_“JENSEN!”_ he shouts, half blind, hands reaching for empty air, knowing and not knowing and-

And Adam wakes up with a start, too. Waking followed by understanding, one thought jolting against the other at 3 in the morning. 

He reaches out quickly, a sleepy dedicated alertness. Francis doesn’t seem to notice. Adam knows he does, though. This isn’t the first time this has happened.

Not even in the past few years.

He holds on to Francis carefully. If there’s one thing Adam’s come to appreciate about the way he’s been made more than anything else, it’s that while most people’s connection to the fine-tuned motions of their body wavers as the time keeps passing, his only seems to get stronger. It’s… It’s that Adam can hold Francis tight enough so he can feel anchored to someone (somewhen), but not tight enough that he feels trapped all over again. It’s that Adam can do all that and still run a thumb lightly over Francis’ shoulder. It’s that he can help make the shaking stop.

“It’s okay,” he says, calmly. “It’s okay, you’re here. I’m here.”

He holds Francis in the dark, _I’m here, you’re here, everything’s okay_ , and he chooses not to know for how long. He keeps him there until he feels the other man relaxing in his arms, starting to fall back asleep, back to something that at least if not a _good_ dream, isn’t a nightmare.

“I love you,” he says, quietly, knowing Francis won’t hear it.

But he squeezes Francis just a hair tighter, just the smallest unnoticeable bit so that the things Francis can’t hear right now, he’ll feel all the same.


End file.
